


The Perils of Faking Illness (or, “two times Fred Andrews faked sick to get out of class and one time he actually needed a hospital”)

by jugheadjones



Series: Senior Year [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: High School Hijinks, Multi, Riverparents, Sickfic, adventures in appendicitis, its a cliche for a reason, parentdale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: "What's with him?"FP peels the lid off a pudding cup. "Fred's feeling sick today.""That so?""Well, planning on it."





	The Perils of Faking Illness (or, “two times Fred Andrews faked sick to get out of class and one time he actually needed a hospital”)

**Author's Note:**

> The kind and loving people who leave comments for me: your stories and writing style are so mature! 
> 
> Me: churns this out

**1992.**

"What's the word?" asks FP when Fred emerges from the nurse’s office. "Too feeble to enlist?"  

It's mid-September, but Riverdale’s been hit with an unexpected heat-wave, and temperatures are soaring into the 80s. As they stand in the hallway, the panes of the windows glitter with morning bursts of sun. Fred grins and flashes a pink square of paper at him. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

“Geez, Fred, I don't know how you get away with this.” 

Fred’s been a subtle and accomplished illness-faker for as long as FP’s known him: retaining a perfect attendance record on each of his report cards despite his multiple days off. To FP, who has always come and gone as he pleased from his various classes, staging a sickness drama whenever you needed a break seemed unnecessarily taxing. Fred’s dad was a hardass about such things, however, and Fred was a bit of a chickenguts when it came to letting his dad down. 

So he fakes them. No more than three times a year, as a rule, showing uncharacteristic patience and restraint. The fact that they're a month in and he's already dipping into his stash is unusual, but Fred’s never been able to resist a hot summer sky, even when it should be fall out. 

"The secret's in clammy hands." Fred tells him, licking both of his palms for good luck. "You ever seen Ferris Bueller?"

"No."

Fred goggles. "You've never seen Ferris Bueller?" 

FP shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to act tough. "That's what I just said, didn't I?" 

On the surface they can't be more different, FP as broad and dark and serious as Fred was clean-cut and sunshine-faced. Even as they stand here, most of the light from the windows is landing on Fred’s side of the hall, so that they exist facing each other over a line of shadow. FP’s swapped out his blue-and-gold letterman for a dark leather jacket today, so the difference is more pronounced than ever. 

Two sides of the same fucking coin, thinks FP. Or however that goes. 

“We’ve been friends for four years and you've never seen-”

“If you say Ferris Bueller again I'm going to punch your head off.” 

Fred just rolls his eyes, exorbitantly unimpressed, and then sticks his tongue out like a first-grader. 

“Real mature. So you licked your hands, big deal. I wouldn't have let you go home.”

“I told her I was feeling faint.” 

“Feeling fai-” FP doesn’t have time to finish the sentence because Fred rolls his eyes up in his head and slumps backward. FP has to lunge to keep him from smacking his head on the floor. 

“Don't ever do that,” scolds FP as he holds Fred up. “What if I hadn't caught you?” 

“You ever heard of a trust fall, FP?”

“You're gonna get yourself in trouble if you trust me that much.” The danger passed, he lets go of Fred so that he drops to the ground with a  _ whump _ . Fred springs right back up like a jack-in-the-box. 

“You can't keep doing this all year, Fred. Senior year’s pretty serious.”

“Serious?” Fred dusts some hallway dirt off his jeans. “FP, you don't even come to school half the time.” 

“Yeah, but not you,” protests FP, feeling embarrassed. “You're going places, you know what I mean?” 

“Going places? Whatever place I'm going, we’re going together, F.” 

FP cracks a grin. “If you're talking about hell, prison, or detention, maybe.”

“How about the fishing hole? I got worms, I got lures, I got rods-” 

“I'm just saying, we can't keep this up forever,” interrupts FP as Fred sets off toward the school exit. “We have to start acting mature at some point.” 

“You worry too much, FP. I’ve got a day off school, there's not a cloud in the sky, and we’ve got fish to fry and hay to roll in.” 

“Hay? What the fuck are you talking about.” 

Fred’s near impossible to talk to when he's in one of his giddy moods, and that's now. “It's a metaphor, FP.” He grabs FP’s muscular arm and gives it a squeeze that FP is going to be feeling for days. “Don’t worry your head about it. Let’s split.” 

“You get so goofy when it's nice out.”

“And you get to be such a bore.” Fred tugs on his arm. “We can be adults when we’re dead. Come on.” 

FP has pretty solid plans to die young, but he guesses he can see the logic there. “I'm coming,” he protests as he lets Fred drag him - an effort, because even after Fred’s summer growth spurt FP is taller and heavier - toward the double doors. “I'm coming.” 

They’ve stepped out of their respective first period classes, and save for the occasional last-minute straggler, the hallways are empty and silent. FP’s kind of sweltering in his leather jacket, and thinks a day by the river might not be so bad after all. Nothing was really bad when you were laying on the banks of somewhere sunny with Fred. 

On the way out, though, their path is barred by a lanky redhead in a pink T-shirt. Mary spends her free period as acting hall monitor, as part of what Fred annoyedly calls her  _ Teacher’s Pet Routine _ . Fred and Mary rub each other the wrong way, have since junior high. 

"Hold up.” says Mary. “Where's your hall pass?"

"I'm headed home." Fred flashes the pink slip. "Doctor's orders."

"No offense, Fred, the only sick you ever are is sick in the head."

"Sure, I'm sick." Fred holds out a palm. "Feel my hands." 

"He's got clammy palms," speaks up FP, and Fred steps on his foot. 

"Nice try." 

“Mary, if he's got a pass, you've got to let him go.” protests FP, deeply amused. 

“FP, I feel faint,” says Fred in a tiny voice. Mary rolls her eyes in a terrifyingly Fred-like way and plants her hands on her hips. “Everything’s spinning. I-” 

He goes down again, and this time FP catches him like a charm. 

“Oh, just fucking leave,” snaps Mary, before FP can even get in on the act. “It’ll be more peaceful around here.” 

Fred lifts himself unsteadily off FP’s shoulder, and FP loops an arm around him to shepherd him out the door. Mary watches them go with an expression like a thundercloud. 

"You're shameless," FP says as he guides Fred down the steps. 

"It's one of my best traits." 

Outside, the breeze raises their hair slightly off their necks. The parking lot smells like baked tar. 

"She's right, though." Fred adds as they head toward the road. "I don't get sick." 

"What do you mean you don't get sick?" 

"I mean, a cold here and there. But not during the school year. I'm not lucky enough." 

Admittedly, FP can’t remember the last time Fred left school for a genuine illness. “Well, your luck’s going to run out someday.” 

“I don’t think so.” Fred rolls his shoulders back, face upturned cheerfully to the blue of the sky. “It’s been four years. I’m golden.” 

FP could have argued more, could have made a bet for the new reel Fred had just bought, but only shrugs. They’ve got  _ bigger fish to fry _ , as the saying goes. 

And hay to roll in. 

They run together out of the parking lot and into the late-summer afternoon. 

* * *

  **November.**

"What's with him?" asks Jerry Mason, sliding in beside FP at their cafeteria table. Fred is staring seriously at his unopened lunchbox, hands folded with uncharacteristic stillness on the table in front of him. 

FP peels the lid off a pudding cup. "Fred's feeling sick today." 

"That so?"

"Well, planning on it." 

Around them, the cafeteria is bustling with life, the aisles between seats crowded with bookbags and jackets. It’s a _sharp_ day - the snow hasn’t come yet but the air is frigid: frost and ice settles over the town overnight, and the football field grass crunches when you walk on it. No one’s eating lunch outside, so the cafeteria is packed to the rafters.   

“Yeah?” asks Gladys. “And where are you two going?”

“They want to see a band out in Greendale,” announces Hermione, twitching an eyebrow just a smidge to make it clear just how convinced she was that they would pull _ that  _ one off. But Jerry looks interested. 

“What band?

Hermione tosses her hair. “Rancid Onions or something.” 

“Ruthless Pumpkins,” corrects Fred, slipping an arm around Hermione and tucking his fingers just barely into the waistband of her pleated skirt. FP can’t mind with Gladys right next to him, but he feels his face get hot and looks away. 

Gladys just smirks. “Any relation to Smashing Pumpkins?”

“No.” says Fred. “They’re a Greendale band. But they’re really good.” 

“In the middle of a school day?” Jerry laughs, peeling off his letterman. “You guys are crazy.” 

Gladys combs her hair back with her fingers. “Yeah, aren’t you both in hot water with Weatherbee after that eel prank? There’s no way he’ll let you out if you say you’re feeling sick.” 

“And you’ve got Haggly’s test last period,” speaks up Hermione. “You can’t re-do that one.” 

FP waves her off. “Relax, we’re professionals.” 

Jerry shrugs nervously. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, FP.” 

“Yeah, if FP gets thrown off the football team you doom us all, Fred.” Hermione tosses her hair again over her shoulder. “And we just ordered new cheerleading uniforms.” 

FP puts his hands up. “Hey, I’ve been good this year. I’ve only had two other unexcused absences.” 

“That they know about,” mutters Hermione and exchanges a secret smile with him under Fred’s arm. 

“When’s kickoff anyway? Or, you know,” Jerry grins apologetically. “Show kickoff.” 

FP grins, remembering Fred leaning over to him in freshman year and asking how many innings were in a football game. They all spoke their own language. “They go onstage at three.” 

“Shit, but you have to get there, right?”

“We’ll manage it,” says Fred, with an assuredness in his voice that FP only wishes he felt. “We just have to leave by the beginning of last period at the latest.” 

“Well, better you than me.” Hal is waving at Jerry from across the room, and he slides out of his seat at the table, throwing his letterman over one arm. “I’ll catch you guys later. Good luck.” 

FP nudges Fred in the side as Jerry leaves. “If you were really sick you’d let me have your pudding.” 

“Fine.” Fred’s busy nuzzling into Hermione’s neck anyways. Hermione pushes his head off with one manicured hand and gets up as well. 

“Sorry, I have to talk to Sierra about something.” She smooths Fred’s hair back, running her nails along his scalp, and then leans in to peck him on the cheek. Swinging her leg over the bench, she rises and kisses FP on the opposite cheek. “Enjoy the Flaming Muffins.” 

“What was that about?” asks Gladys sharply, and FP feels this bad pit in his stomach, not just because he hated Gladys being mad at him, but because he knows what it’s like to watch someone else kiss the person you want to kiss. The temperature in the room seems to have dropped several degrees for him. 

“She does it on purpose,” Fred complains as Hermione saunters away, and for a moment FP thinks they’re on the same page. But Fred’s off in his own little world as always, and rounds out the sentence with a plaintive: “She _ knows _ what the band’s called.” 

FP laughs, doesn’t meet Gladys’ eyes. “Can we get a bumper sticker that says  _ Flaming Muffins _ ?” 

“Sure,” says Fred, abandoning his own lunch and taking a big bite of the half-sandwich Jerry had left behind. “Alice would want one too. She’ll get a kick out of it.” 

* * *

"I'm getting kind of desperate, F." admits Fred as they climb the stairs to the top floor. 

There’s twenty minutes left of lunch, and they’ve yet to come up with a concrete plan. FP’s also begun to have major second thoughts about sitting this English test out. He’s missed a lot of English lately, and English is one of those classes you have to stay afloat in if you’re on the football team. November’s been a bad month, and he’s been sinking. Or at least nearing an iceberg. 

"We're gonna have to miss it,” he admits. “There's no way around it." 

"They'll let us leave if we're really sick." 

"Sure, but how are we coming down with something in the next fifty minutes?" 

Fortunately Fred has it all planned out. "Only one of us has to get sick. The other one just offers to take them to the nurse. We slip out a side door, and we're gone." 

FP grasps at one last semblance of reality. "It'll never work." 

"It will if we're convincing." 

FP sighs, jogging up the last few stairs to the Science wing. "I'm all for a plan if you've got one. But I don't think we can pull this off. We've been totally healthy all day." 

"Ye of little faith." Fred unzips his lunch box and pulls out his thermos. "Watch this." 

As FP watches, he tilts his head back, unscrews the lid, and dumps half the thermos - soup, judging by the smell, probably chicken - into his mouth. Then, with a tremendous gagging sound, he dashes to a pail on the floor and heaves realistically into it. The sound of something wet and liquid patters on the bottom of the plastic. 

"Holy shit," says FP, in awe. "Nice. No teacher can resist a pukeidemic." 

Fred pops up, grinning. "Sounds real, huh? It's beautiful cause it's simple." 

He really thinks Fred might be a genius. An evil genius, but a genius all the same. 

"Do me a favour," says FP as they slip sideways into a janitor's room so Fred can empty the bucket. "Ask Haggly first and just say to her that you feel like you're gonna hurl and wanna miss third period. Sometimes that's enough. We might not even have to pull this stunt of yours." 

"Good plan." Fred cranks one of the cold water taps in the large sink and starts rinsing soup out of the pail. 

"Do something about the smell of that, too." FP relaxes against a wall. "Unless you want people to think you've overdosed on chicken noodle." 

"I'll mix it with something nasty." Fred promises, turning the bucket upside-down and killing the flow of water. "You just get out of there and meet me by the car if we get separated. Should be half an hour drive to Greendale, we'll still see em go on." 

FP cracks his first real grin since Hermione called their band the  _ Flaming Muffins _ . “All right, fine. What do I do?” 

“Quick diversion. Just give me time to chug this. Do that thing where you click your pen or something.” 

“It’s done.” FP follows him out into the hall. “We better split. Gladys was right, if Weatherbee sees us together, he’ll be pissed.” 

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s a big softie on the inside.”  

“Yeah, but how many layers do you have to go through to get to the inside?” He spots a familiar flash of blonde coming from the opposite direction, and isn’t surprised when Fred rushes up to the duo of girls who’ve just turned into the hallway. 

“Alice! Do you owe me a favour?

Alice snorts. “Hardly.” 

Fred is undeterred. “Well, will you take an I.O.U?” 

Alice sets her lips in a line and shifts her books from one arm to the other so she can place a hand on her hip. “What do you need?” 

“Will you go by Haggly’s and tell her you think I’m getting sick?” 

“Don’t tell me.” Alice rolls her eyes. “You two are pulling some kind of disappearing act.” 

“Will you do it? You don’t have to convince her of anything, just say it casually. Walk by her door talking about it if you have to.” 

“Fine. But our regular rules apply. If you get caught, you can’t implicate me.” She turns to the redhead with her. “Sorry, Mer.”

Mary folds her arms and sighs heavily. 

“What is it?” Alice asks Fred. 

“Huh?” 

“Your mysterious illness. I need to know which symptoms to report. Do you have the black plague again or are you just throwing up?” 

“Definitely throwing up. But maybe not yet. Just tell her I look really rough.” 

“Nausea, cold sweats, low-grade fever.” Alice ticks them off on her fingers. “I got it.” 

“Don’t overdo it.” 

“How could I?” she asks with a wry smile. “That’s your job.” 

“Owe you big time, Al.” He flashes a nervous, guilty grin at Mary, who looks pointedly away. FP rolls his eyes in secret where Fred can’t see. Alice shakes her head and glances at her friend. 

"You want in on this bad idea, Mer, or should I meet you in class."

"No way." Mary looks at Fred with an expression of utmost dislike. "I'll see you in class." 

"Better sweat yourself up," Alice advises. "You look healthy as a horse to  _ me _ , and no one calls Alice Cooper a liar." 

"Women." says Fred disparagingly as they head off down the hall. "They just don't get it." 

It bugs FP. He's never in his life known Fred to be sexist, but whenever Mary's around he suddenly turns into the king of tools. “She’s right,” he says, watching Fred head purposefully toward a water fountain. “If you don’t look sick it won’t work.” 

Fred emerges, dripping, from the fountain. "How's this?" 

"No good. You want to look convincing, I'll take you out to the track and run you hard." 

"It's too out in the open. From this point on, as far as every teacher in this school is concerned, I need to act like I can barely stand up. If Flutensnoot sees me running laps, the illusion is ruined." 

"Let's do the girls track, then. You've got tree cover there." 

Fred considers. "Okay. Do your worst." 

He does, and then some. Fred's in better shape than FP thought, but no one can stand up to Coach Kleats' mid-season football drills for long. It's kind of satisfying, giving orders. Maybe if he's not in Juvie by age eighteen he'll go into coaching. 

"One more," he soothes Fred who comes running over and collapses by his side in the grass. "Then cool-down, then we go in." 

"Then showtime." 

"Then Ruthless Pumpkins." 

Fred heaves himself up off the ground. "Okay. What do I do." 

The guys call this one the lung-buster." 

"I'm going to throw up for real." 

"Even better." 

Fred moans and sits back down. "Isn't that bell going to ring yet?" 

"This is good." FP claps Fred on the back. "The more dehydrated you look, the better." 

“Better be a good setlist,” grumbles Fred and hops back up, heading back toward the track. 

 

* * *

 

"Okay, Plan A." says Fred, hovering outside Miss Haggly's door. "If this works, I'll be out in about ten minutes. If it doesn't-"

"You fake spew chicken noodle soup in the middle of class. I get it, believe me. Just ask. I'll make myself scarce in case someone sees us together." 

"If anyone asks, I look like crap." 

"Yeah, but how's that different from usual?" 

He heads to the caf and has a long overdue helping of mystery meat and mashed potatoes while Fred pleads his case with Miss Haggly. He’s Miss Beazley’s favourite student, and she’d saved him a helping, for which he’s grateful. He thinks she might know that his parents don’t exactly cook a whole lot. That his life kind of runs on a one-meal-a-day kind of deal. 

When he gets back, Fred is loitering in the hall, arms folded. "She wouldn't bite. Can you believe it? She says I can sit by the door, though. In case I gotta-" 

He mimes vomiting onto FP's shirt, who pushes him roughly off. "I get it. You just better be quick about it. The opening act goes on in an hour." 

Fred gives him a goofy salute and a grin. “You can count on me.” 

Oh, he can. That’s the problem. 

FP threads his way to his usual seat at the back when the bell rings, watching out of the corner of his eye as Fred takes a chair in the corner near the back door. The typical afternoon buzz of conversation surrounds them as other students file in. Concealed at the back of the class, Fred silently lifts the thermos to him in a mock toast. FP lifts his pencil in reply. 

"Yes, Mr. Jones?" 

Haggly had mistaken his raised pencil for a question, but he supposes now is as good a time as ever. 

"I have an objection to the syllabus." 

She zeroes in on him like a hawk that’s spotted its prey. “An objection?” 

FP wets his lips. “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is racist. It paints a sympathetic portrait of slave-owners and uses racial stereotypes and racist language. Mark Twain may not have believed in slavery but he held a lot of racist worldviews, especially toward Native Americans -” 

The loud scrape of Fred's chair interrupts him, and the whole class turns to see him standing up. 

“Sorry,” says Fred softly, and FP takes a moment to admire his handiwork: Fred’s skin is glowing with sweat and his chest is shuddering under his shirt. “I-” 

He turns then and shoves his way out the back door, and a second later comes the sickening liquid-pattering sound of soup hitting some kind of container. The whole class ripples with disgust, and a few students near the back spring up out of their seats. 

FP covers his face with the back of his hand so he won’t smile. For someone who hadn’t been awfully happy lately, he was doing a lot of grinning today. 

Fred re-enters, shakily. His chin and lips are wet, and he passes a sleeve across his face. "Sorry," he whispers, as everyone near recoils away from him. He wipes his mouth again, and the girl in front of him scoots further away. The room has exploded into murmurs, some of concern, some of disgust. "Didn't mean to interrupt." 

Manford Muggs, in the seat next door, rises and sets a hand on his shoulder. "Dude, you look bad." 

"Freddie, you okay?" FP threads his way through desks, playing the concerned best friend. "Is it your stomach still? He's been sick as hell all day," he tells Manford. Fred shuts his eyes, one hand knotted in his black t-shirt, over his stomach. "I told him to go home at lunch." 

"Get him out of here!" Vic Mantle is yelling, and FP has to smother a grin. "I don't want to get sick. All of us have a game tomorrow." 

Haggly is eyeing them nervously. "Maybe one of you boys ought to accompany Mr. Andrews to the nurse." 

"I got him," says FP, slipping one of Fred's arms around his shoulders. Mannford nods, looking moderately relieved. "You're the boss." 

"You smell like soup," FP whispers to Fred as he leads him out the door, and he sees Fred's mouth twitch as he stifles a giggle. "What did you puke in?" 

"Recycling bin."

"Aw, someone's gotta wash that you know."

"I needed the sound. Besides, it'll probably be us when we get detention for this stunt. I wasn't that convincing." 

"I don't know, you were pretty good." 

"You think? I was thinking I'd try out for the school play." 

"Not a lot of puking in Death of a Salesman.”

"Pity."  

At the main atrium they duck briefly behind the trophy case, checking the hall for teachers. When no one appears, FP grabs Fred’s damp hand and leads him at a sprint down the hall.  

They’re out into the sunshine before anyone can say a word. 

* * *

**January.**

He keeps an eye on the back of Fred’s head throughout first period. Fred’s leaning forward in his seat with one arm pinned uncomfortably between the desk and his stomach, and FP wonders why he doesn’t just sit up. Thinks his arm must be pins and needles by now. 

It’s just that there’s something  _ up _ with Fred today, not just because he’s sitting through French in the most uncomfortable way in the world, or because he’d let out an unenthusiastic groan of annoyance when FP had reminded him that they had basketball practice after school. Fred’s not the best player on the team, but he’s always gung-ho about practice. This grumpy, unhappy Fred is not normal. 

They’d met outside on the steps before the first bell like normal, and FP had greeted him with a casual “Hey, Freddie,” his voice softer than usual because Fred’s hair was all bed-ruffled and cute that morning, like he hadn’t had time to comb it. “How’s every little goddamn thing?” 

There was a right answer to that: it’s the first half of the type of call-and-reply that makes up the inner language of close relationships. But Fred hadn’t offered it. “Fine,” he’d said instead, clapping a hand briefly on FP’s arm without any of his usual gusto. “You?” 

“Okay, I guess.” FP had watched him cross in front of him toward the door in mystified silence. “Fred, is something up?” 

“No, nothing’s up.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“You can tell me, you know.” 

“I know. Can we drop it?” 

Fred doesn’t talk like that ever. Call him crazy, but FP was starting to get the feeling that every little goddamn thing was not very fine indeed. 

He’d wondered if it was home stuff, Fred’s dad or something, because Fred had a good dad but God knew they’d had their share of fights. Worried briefly that it was about him. But when they’d taken their seats in French, Fred had seemed almost normal again, joking with Jerry Mason and Vic Mantle at the front of the room. 

FP watches the back of his head all class, just in case. But Fred doesn’t move or turn around. 

He loses track of Fred when they go their separate ways for second period, but as he’s stepping out for a cigarette halfway through (FP had quit in December, relapsed over the holidays, and was back to a pack a day by New Year’s) he sees Fred crossing the hallway ahead of him. 

“Hey, Fred-” he offers, but Fred just pushes his way into the bathroom and ignores him. FP feels shame, dismay, and a little tickle of anger in equal measure. 

His fears that Fred suddenly, inexplicably hates him are dissuaded over lunch, however. Fred comes up behind him in the cafeteria line and kisses his shoulder, and hovers close to his side as Beazley is scooping mashed potatoes onto his tray. 

“You’re not having anything, Fred?” 

“Not hungry.” 

FP gets Beazley to scoop him some anyway - they have basketball after school, after all, but Fred only prods at his cafeteria tray the whole period, moving the gravy around with his fork. 

“Freddie, are you okay?” 

Fred grins convincingly, and for a moment the discomfort in FP’s chest eases somewhat. “Just not in the mood for mystery meat.” 

That’s reasonable. But something dense and unhappy is starting to grow in FP’s gut, a wrongness that prickles the lining of his stomach like acid. Vic and Hermione - both well off enough to bring their own, healthy lunches - start speculating loudly about what exactly goes into the cafeteria mystery meat. Fred excuses himself and leaves. 

He finds Fred in the bathroom, lifting water in his cupped hands and pouring carefully it over his neck. 

“Freddie?” 

“Hey.” 

“You okay?” 

Fred meets his eyes in the mirror and smiles. “I’m good.” 

Something connects for FP at last, and he feels a rush of relief. He hadn’t realized how convinced he was that Fred suddenly hated him until he’d discovered another explanation. 

“Fred, if you’re feeling sick, go home.” 

Fred smiles weakly, and FP knows he’s right on the money. “My dad’ll get mad.” 

“But you’re sick.” FP reaches tenderly for his forehead, and Fred ducks away from his hand. 

“I’m okay, F.” His voice is sharp. 

The rejection hurts. Physical affection doesn’t come easy to FP, even small things: he feels unseasonably embarrassed for having been refused by the touchiest person he knows. In retrospect, it should have been a red flag, a huge one. But FP’s still raw from the possibility of Fred having been mad at him, and misses it completely. 

“All right,” he says hotly, stowing his hand in his pocket, and then, more gently: “just take care of yourself.” 

“I will.” 

FP doesn’t have any reason to disbelieve him until halfway through last period. 

They’re in the middle of a discussion of East of Eden when Fred stands so abruptly that his chair squeals a black mark into the linoleum floor. FP glances up from where he’s been doodling on the corner of his paper to see him standing up at the back of the class, his arm still pressed protectively to his stomach, his face a stark, ashen white. 

Then he collapses in a faint. 

Fred has his wits enough about him to half-catch himself on the desk before he goes all the way down, his knees colliding with the ground first with a painful-sounding double crack. Once his knees have landed, the tenuous grip he’s achieved on the edge of the desk collapses and he slumps forward onto his hands.  

“FRED-” bellows FP, and almost knocks Harry Clayton over, who had crossed in front of him on the way to the pencil sharpener. He’s the only one panicking. A few people are standing up in surprise, but most of them remain in their seats, nonplussed, looking interestedly over their shoulders at Fred’s prone form. Even Haggly hasn’t come around her desk yet. Some of his classmates haven’t even noticed. 

As if in slow motion FP sees Haggly glance up from her papers, seeking out the source of the noise, sees Sierra’s hand fly to her mouth, sees Manford blink stupidly at the space in front of him where Fred had just been standing. He sees at once everything and none of it: all of his being is concentrated on Fred, a huddled mass beside the legs of his desk now, concentrated on getting to Fred as quickly as possible because Manford is starting to rise and if everyone crowds around his friend they’ll shut him out and Fred needs him,  _ now _ \- 

One of his hands finds purchase on the edge of a chair, and the metal legs squeal in surprise as he pushes it out across the floor. It hits a desk and overturns: by the time the last of his classmates look up at the noise he’s at Fred’s desk, ducking under Manford’s outstretched arm to get there. Manford reaches instinctively to stop him, but FP’s football reflexes kick in with a vengeance and he all but throws the redhead away from him, knees colliding hard with the linoleum as he drops to Fred’s side. 

“I’m okay,” says Fred hoarsely into the ground, his voice little more than a thin whisper. His forehead is pressed squarely against the floor, and even with space between them, FP can feel him radiating heat. Fred’s right arm is still hooked firmly across his stomach, and he’s bending himself over it so that it’s pressing tight into his body. Something very cold and very frightened settles into FP like cold water.

“Freddie, you’re not okay-  _ shit- _ ” FP had set a hand on his back and the heat coming off his skin, even through the damp fabric of his cotton shirt, is incredible. Fred’s cheeks are burning with colour even as the rest of his face shines a glowy, milkweed white. A small crowd has gathered around them, and FP won’t realize until later that he should have asked then for an ambulance, should have sent someone to get help while they were all  _ there _ . 

He doesn’t have time, anyway, because Fred starts moving, pushing himself up shakily onto his knees and then stumbling to his feet as FP tries and fails to keep him down. 

“Fred, stop it, stay here-” 

Fred ignores him, uses the edge of the desk to haul himself back into a standing position, breathing as heavily as if he’d just run a race. And the crowd, not feeling the heat, not knowing how bad it is, seems to draw back and relax. A couple people are even laughing. 

_ They think he’s faking it _ , FP realizes for the first time,  _ we have a test and they think he’s faking it and it’s all a joke _ . That should have sent him into panic mode, have punched the button in him flashing CALL AN AMBULANCE SOMETHING IS WRONG, but he’s too focused on Fred - the glazed, frightened look in his eyes like an injured animal. 

“Fred-” 

Fred turns and shoves his way out of the back classroom door, and FP scrambles to his feet to follow him. He catches up with Fred easily as his friend is speed-walking down the hallway toward the nearest exit, moving in the erratic, winding pattern of something fatally wounded. The way raccoons and things walked out of the woods on the Southside where god-knew-what lived, whatever animal left bloody claw marks dragging down the matted fur of their unfortunate bellies before they collapsed. FP’s backyard borders on woods, and he’s seen it a lot. When he was little they used to call it werewolves. 

He grabs his best friend’s shoulder. “Fred-” 

Fred’s gasping for breath as he’s walking, making little wheezing, whistling sounds in his throat that might be the scariest things FP’s ever experienced. And FP had grown up on the Southside. “It hurts,” he gasps. 

“What hurts?” 

“Breathing.” 

_ Fuck _ , FP doesn’t like that answer. The first of the self loathing hits him in queasy waves: _ why am I so useless, why can’t I do anything, why didn’t I listen to him, why didn’t I  _ see - but he shoves it away from him as hard as he can. He can worry about it later. Fred needs him now. 

Fred’s almost at the double doors before he grabs the free-standing trash can by the entrance and vomits cleanly into it, rising up a bit onto the balls of his sneakers as he does so that one foot slips back and cuts a patient, rubbery squeak through the sound of his retching. FP grabs for his forehead too late, but Fred had recently cut the long hair he’d been sporting all throughout sophmore and junior years, and there’s no hair to hold back - he comes away instead with a palmful of sweat. 

Fred spits weakly and glances over his shoulder, searching for anyone who had seen him throw up, but the hallway for the time being is empty. He drags a hand sloppily across his mouth and shivers in FP’s grip. FP has to hold him upright to steady him. 

“FP, please, I wanna go outside, I’m so hot.” 

“Okay,” says FP weakly, because they’re right there: the metal bar of the front door gleaming in the winter sun just to their right. Thank God it’s a push door - he doesn’t think he’d have the presence of mind to navigate a pull. Fred slumps against him, that arm still pressed to his gut, the spike of his right elbow digging into his right side. FP leans his weight against the door and a blast of cold air hits them as it swings open into the schoolyard. Fred lets out a grunt of pain and folds himself in half over FP’s protective grip, his legs giving out so that FP is the only thing holding him upright. 

“Fred-!” Something very cold and very scary is settling into place in FP’s mind. FP knows next to nothing about medical affairs, skips several pages of photos in his biology textbook because he has absolutely no interest in what is going on with all the fragile, oogy, bloody parts inside of him, but some things are common knowledge and that you feel appendicitis on your right side is one of them. “Where does it hurt?” 

Fred whimpers and steps hard on FP’s toes as he tries to find his footing, the dead weight of him lifting briefly off of FP’s arm. He strains toward the open field outside. “I want to - I want to go home.” 

_ Fucking drama queen _ , FP has enough time to think, before Fred wrenches his body out of FP’s grasp and takes several swift, tottery steps out onto the pavement. 

“Fred!” FP catches up with him, letting the school door swing shut. He lifts Fred’s free arm over his shoulders to keep him upright, wrapping his other hand carefully over his ribs to steady him. “Where does it hurt, you need to tell me.” 

“My stomach.” He spits out the words like they’re glass, like they hurt to say. 

“Where on your stomach?” 

Fred gasps, and screws his eyes shut. “My side.” 

It just confirms what he already knows, but FP feels a shiver pass through him anyway. People had to go to the hospital for appendix stuff. Sometimes they died. “Shit, Freddie.”  

Fred’s voice trembles, and FP regrets at once every bad thing he’s ever thought about him. “I want to go home.” 

“Okay, okay. I’ll take you home.” He remembers the way Fred touches him when he’s wasted drunk or hung over and he tries to mimic it for him, running a hand gently over Fred’s sweaty forehead. “You just have to stay with me for a bit, okay?” 

“What is going on here?” 

Mary Moore is standing in the open door, looking at them with utmost suspicion. FP’s never been so glad to see someone in his life. 

“Mary! Call an ambulance. He’s sick.” 

She actually rolls her eyes at him. “You must think I was born yesterday, FP.” 

“MARY CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE!” 

She blinks, her brown eyes bright with surprise, her mouth dropping open. “What?” 

Fred saves the day by vomiting, jerking forward in FP’s grip and unleashing a spatter of something whitish-red onto the snowy pavement. Mary jumps back, the colour draining abruptly from her face so that the smattering of freckles on her nose stands out in clear definition. “What the hell is wrong with him?” she demands quickly. 

“I think his appendix.” Fred’s whole body weight is hanging off of FP now, and it takes everything in him to keep the two of them upright. “Mary, can you  _ please _ -” 

She takes off at a run. Fred has been slipping lower and lower against his side and sags now to his knees, his head dipping forward toward the ground. FP crouches down and keeps a steadying arm around Fred’s upper arm. 

“You still with me, bud?”

Fred nods jerkily, but it’s enough to reassure him somewhat. Behind them he hears the bang of the door opening, and Alice comes sprinting up to the two of them. The cold fear-thing in FP’s heart thaws by just a few degrees. Alice always knows what to do. He and Alice may not have parted amicably the last time they’d spoken, but this was bigger than the two of them now. FP on his own would fuck things up. If Alice was here too, maybe things would be okay. 

“What the hell is going on?” 

“His appendix.” 

“ _ Fuck _ , Fred!"

“Don’t yell at him!” snaps FP, covering Fred protectively. Fortunately, Alice reasserts herself with a shake of her head and spares no more time for emotional outbursts. 

“Get him to lie down.” 

“Lie down, Freddie,” whispers FP and lowers him gently onto the pavement. He pulls Fred’s damp hand off of the place where it’s fastened to his right side, and whatever pain he’s in, Fred lets him do so blindly. Out of a morbid curiosity more than any actual medical know-how, FP lifts the hem of his shirt. Fred’s stomach is swollen and burning hot, and he breathes in sharply through his nose when FP’s fingers only ghost over the skin there. 

Fred’s shivering even in his fever, and FP squeezes his twitching hand and feels a rushing hopelessness, the knees of his dark jeans soaking through with snow as he crouches there in the courtyard beside his best friend. The little voice in his head comes back.  _ You should have noticed. You should have known.  _

Then Alice is crouching beside him, and things are okay again, though barely. “There’s an ambulance coming.” She grabs FP’s shaking free hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay, F.” 

Only Fred calls him that anymore. With his left hand still clenching firmly to one of Fred’s, he bows his head so that he’s pressed against Alice’s chest, her honey-gold hair hanging around him like a sweet-smelling curtain. Growing up on the Southside has allowed him to pick out emergency medical sirens from police cars, and he hears them now, very faintly: the howling whirl of an approaching ambulance. In the cold and the wet, FP doesn’t think he’s ever heard something so beautiful. 

His last thought before he faints against her is that Alice must be able to tell them apart in the same way. 


End file.
